Christopher Paolini - Eldest [en]

Saphira yelped with surprise as Murtagh’s incantation stopped her in midair and held her in place, floating several feet above the plateau. No matter how much she wriggled, she could not touch the ground, nor could she fly any higher.

How can he still be human and have the strength to do that? wondered Eragon. Even with my new abilities, such a task would leave me gasping for air and unable to walk. Relying upon his experience counteracting Oromis’s spells, Eragon said, “Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un eka!”

Murtagh made no attempt to stop him, only gave him a flat stare, as if he found Eragon’s resistance a pointless inconvenience. Baring his teeth, Eragon redoubled his efforts. His hands went cold, his bones ached, and his pulse slowed as the magic sapped his energy. Without being asked, Saphira joined forces with him, granting him access to the formidable resources of her body.

Five seconds passed...

Twenty seconds... A thick vein pulsed on Murtagh’s neck.

A minute...

A minute and a half... Involuntary tremors racked Eragon. His quadriceps and hamstrings fluttered, and his legs would have given way if he were free to move.

Two minutes passed...

At last Eragon was forced to release the magic, else he risked falling unconscious and passing into the void. He sagged, utterly spent.

He had been afraid before, but only because he thought he might fail. Now he was afraid because he did not know what Murtagh was capable of.

“You cannot hope to compete with me,” said Murtagh. “No one can, except for Galbatorix.” Walking up to Eragon, he pointed his sword at Eragon’s neck, pricking his skin. Eragon resisted the impulse to flinch. “It would be so easy to take you back to Urû’baen.”

Eragon gazed deep into his eyes. “Don’t. Let me go.”

“You just tried to kill me.”

“And you would have done the same in my position.” When Murtagh remained silent and expressionless, Eragon said, “We were friends once. We fought together. Galbatorix can’t have twisted you so much that you’ve forgotten... If you do this, Murtagh, you’ll be lost forever.”

A long minute passed where the only sound was the hue and cry of the clashing armies. Blood trickled down Eragon’s neck from where the sword point cut him. Saphira lashed her tail with helpless rage.

Finally, Murtagh said, “I was ordered to try and capture you and Saphira.” He paused. “I have tried... Make sure we don’t cross paths again. Galbatorix will have me swear additional oaths in the ancient language that will prevent me from showing you such mercy when next we meet.” He lowered his sword.

“You’re doing the right thing,” said Eragon. He tried to step back but was still held in place.

“Perhaps. But before I let you go...” Reaching out, Murtagh pried Zar’roc from Eragon’s fist and unbuckled Zar’roc’s red sheath from the belt of Beloth the Wise. “If I have become my father, then I will have my father’s blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is only right, then, that I should also wield the sword Misery . Misery and Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar’roc should have gone to Morzan’s eldest son, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth.”

A cold pit formed in Eragon’s stomach. It can’t be.

A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh’s face. “I never told you my mother’s name, did I? And you never told me yours. I’ll say it now: Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father. The Twins figured out the connection while they were digging around in your head. Galbatorix was quite interested to learn that particular piece of information.”

“You’re lying!” cried Eragon. He could not bear the thought of being Morzan’s son. Did Brom know? Does Oromis know?... Why didn’t they tell me? He remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in his family would betray him. She was right.

Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient language, then put his lips to Eragon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”

“You’re wrong,” growled Eragon, struggling against the spell. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold. He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my inheritance from you, brother. Farewell.”

Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto Thorn. Not once did he look at Eragon as the dragon crouched, raised its wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished below the horizon did the web of magic release Eragon and Saphira.

Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to Eragon and touched him on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little one?

I’m fine. But he was not, and she knew it.

Walking to the edge of the plateau, Eragon surveyed the Burning Plains and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the river or chasing them back from whence they came.

Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses from both sides of the conflict, enough men and dwarves to populate an entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into the peat fires.

Now that the fighting had subsided, the hawks and eagles, the crows and ravens, descended like a shroud over the field.

Eragon closed his eyes, tears leaking from under the lids.

They had won, but he had lost.

Eragon and Saphira picked their way between the corpses that littered the Burning Plains, moving slowly on account of their wounds and their exhaustion. They encountered other survivors staggering through the scorched battlefield, hollow-eyed men who looked without truly seeing, their gazes focused somewhere in the distance.

Now that his bloodlust had subsided, Eragon felt nothing but sorrow. The fighting seemed so pointless to him. What a tragedy that so many must die to thwart a single madman. He paused to sidestep a thicket of arrows planted in the mud and noticed the gash on Saphira’s tail where Thorn had bitten her, as well as her other injuries. Here, lend me your strength; I’ll heal you.

Tend to those in mortal danger first.

Are you sure?

Quite sure, little one.

Acquiescing, he bent down and mended a soldier’s torn neck before moving on to one of the Varden. He made no distinction between friend and foe, treating both to the limit of his abilities.

Eragon was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he paid little attention to his work. He wished he could repudiate Murtagh’s claim, but everything Murtagh had said about his mother — their mother — coincided with the few things Eragon knew about her: Selena left Carvahall twenty-some years ago, returned once to give birth to Eragon, and was never seen again. His mind darted back to when he and Murtagh first arrived in Farthen Dûr. Murtagh had discussed how his mother had vanished from Morzan’s castle while Morzan was hunting Brom, Jeod, and Saphira’s egg. After Morzan threw Zar’roc at Murtagh and nearly killed him, Mother must have hidden her pregnancy and then gone back to Carvahall in order to protect me from Morzan and Galbatorix .